At Home

The door? One good kick would do it.
The walls? Pretty, flimsy, pretty flimsy.

At home with the feared yet longed for television.
At home with ice in the toilet bowl.
At home with virtual friendships.
At home with cold legs.
At home with foreign junk food.
At home with a creed of tiny movements.
At home with smoke, stale beer, no music.
At home with blank paper and tooth-torn nails.

The windows? How shiny, how brittle.
The floor? The coins don’t roll far when dropped.

At home with uncomfortable sinning.
At home with omission.
At home with small abuse.
At home with no room at the inn.
At home with darker.

At home trying to decide.
At home not deciding.

At home.  What could be better than this?

The ceiling?  Too far away.